On to my teasers from last time. I'm breaking it down into three parts so feel free to grant yourself intermissions. I realize that I could just do three different entries, but after a certain amount of griping about lengthy posts, I feel this would just be reinforcing negative behaviour. I don't need your guff.
I was singing in synagogue last Saturday (cause God forbid I go there when I'm not getting paid) and I was yakking it up with a somewhat rotund 37 year old 'mo who I feel wants to git on dis. Our school boy shenanigans have been getting progressively sillier in the past couple months, as we attempt to guess if a certain tenor's underwear matches his prayer shawl or in what decade a certain soprano's ovaries ceased to function. Still, I generally try to stay attentive, following congregational readings in Hebrew rather than English phonetics, reading along with the week's bible portion and not nodding off with my head leaning against a support beam like some people I could mention (Esther Goldfarb). However, mid-way through last Saturday's service it suddenly occurred to me:
Um, who the fuck am I kidding?
I haven't given two shits about this in months, I haven't learned a lick of Hebrew in the past year, kosher has got to be the most illogical thing I've ever heard of and I'm sorry, but the goddamned Jews have been wandering in the desert since February and they are taking for-fucking-ever to decide who sleeps on what side of the Tabernacle!
The fancy to be a singing Jew as a profession may come back at some point, but for now, I'm just gonna be happy that I'm going back to school next year to do real person music Additionally, I plan on SIGNIFICANTLY decreasing my falafel intake.
Saturday night, Slightly Insane Jewess and I got all dolled up and went to the Drake Hotel. What I thought to be the den of urbane hipsterdom turned out to be nothing more than a sanctuary for inane, cultureless Hollister and Aritzia aficionadi. Once inside, we had to stand in line in the middle of the bar to wait for a place on the rooftop patio. During our hour-long sojourn in line, SIJ had to defend our spot against cutters (and not the fun emo kind) no less than three times, including one Dutch girl in a Minnie Mouse-inspired debacle who wanted to piggy-back with us along with her 3 friends, though we did debate momentarily whether we owed a certain debt to this girl cause of the whole Anne Frank thing.
Once on the roof, we managed to score a prime spot perching at the edge of a bench. Keep your jealousies in your pants. This remainder of this bench and accompanying table/booth belonged, in fact, to a homo habilis-faced hetero hick (not heterophobia; it's what he was) celebrating his 32nd birthday. After grilling us for a good five minutes as to the exact nature of our relationship and we were not fornicating, he asked about mah seshualité, albeit in a very good natured way, and upon learning my precise spot on the Kinsey scale, proceed to stand up and ask me to confirm that his ass was "juicy" before hitting on SIJ. She is a mistress of the rebuff and refused him even the slightest bit of kindness even when he gave us two ballin' birthday cupcakes. Throughout the course of the night, we learned that:
1. He'd known one other gay guy, a former roommate who ha come out to him upon being confronted with the fact that the roomie'sculinary skillz extended to more than microwaving a Don Miguel burrito from 7-11.
2. His cop friends seated on the other side of the table, out of ear shot and out of moisturizer by the looks of their meth-addicty faces, were huge cocaine fiends. This is just the sort of information to not share with perfect strangers, though I probably would have tried a line if offered. It's called entrapment laws, motherfuckers.
3. No, seriously, he really wanted me to like his ass. "What, I'm not your type?" he asked, "Then what is?"
"Oh, I don't know, someone more...European."
What I meant: sophisticated.
What he thought I meant: uncircumcised.
I'm gonna award myself a Misunderstanding Win on this one. What is the opposite of shooting yourself in the foot? Healing yourself in the hand? No. That's just stupid.
Sunday morning, I ventured off to Toronto Island with ESLothario and a few of his friends/my acquaintances to gallivant along the clothing-optional/hetero-optional beach, where became pseudo-Nubian after a vodka-aided 2-hour power nap in 32°C weather. The rest of the afternoon was spent reading Sarah Silverman's book Bedwetter: Stories of Courage, Redemption and Pee, illustrating once again why I should never throw a ball in public (though I do have occasional luck with Frisbees) and trying not to stare inappropriately at all the boobies and penii strolling down the beach. Oh, I stared. Just appropriately.
Of our immediate group, the two women went topless or au naturel while all three of us gents opted to keep our shorts on. This was no small mercy as I was in no mood to witness what matter of boreal forest is growing between ESLothario's legs nor did I wish to be thrown into a jealous rage at the sight of His Asian Friend's flowy, silky pubes. Also, this alleviated any pressure I might have otherwise felt to go nekkid myself. As previously mentioned, Hungarian Jews do alright in this department (the Department of Peen), but we tend not to demonstrate our full potential unless called to action and thus make poor nude beach fodder. Anonymous sex in the sand dunes fodder = yes. Winners of multiple international shrinkage competitions fodder = no.
Our streak of Modest Men in 20-10 finished with the arrival of HAF's neighbour, a not unattractive if slightly zaftig gentleman in his late 30's who was very, erm, European. He also was not one to let a pesky little thing such as a live-in partner get in the way of taking HAF between his bare thighs and giving him a reverse seated bear hug/grope for two hours.
Okay, I realize he's not technically bear
hugging but that shit woulda been hard so stfu.
This, I just do not get. The point has been that men are less monogamously inclined than women and so two men together could foreseeably have certain personal rules in place, but what's in it for the non-coupled guy? Why the fuck would you ever want to be someone's second choice? I fake-slept for an extra half hour just to avoid witnessing the accompanying visual to the loud, wet tongue smacking sounds of them making out.
The afternoon was drawing to a close, but not before this nude, swishy, late 20's, future skin cancer patient queen decided to squat down right by us Indian-style with his definitely-on-full-display brick brown bratwurst, completely shorn, a mere 2 feet from my face. He/it was disgusting. After hearing all about his "famouth Pride partieth," complete with sling, fuck bench and asphyxiation ropes (!), he then scooched over, took HAF's hands and placed them around his own penis and said, "Here, do you mind keeping this warm for me?"
Hey asshole, this is the reason why the majority of the world sees us as sexual deviants who should never be allowed to have families. This guy was to fags as Sarah Palin is to women, and both disgust me in equal measure.
After the ferry ride back to the city, I returned to my shoebox apartment to soak in a tub of aloe vera and contemplate my weekend. I had partied with straights and I had partied with gays and it turns out that I just hate everyone.
At least I'm an equal opportunity misanthrope.